


The Magic Which Binds Us

by InsertSthMeaningful



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Author Likes to Ramble, BAMF Emma Frost, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Cunnilingus, Erik Lehnsherr Defense Squad, Erik Lehnsherr is not a Happy Bunny, F/F, Falling In Love, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hot Sex, Light Angst, Light Mentions of Prostitution, Loving Marriage, M/M, Magic, Smut, The Femslash Took Over, Vaginal Fingering, Wedding Night, Witchcraft, bannedtogetherbingo2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: Emma Grace Frost knows what she wants. And when Charles Xavier asks her to aid him in bringing his husband back from the dead, she also knowshowto get what she wants.Or ratherwhoshe wants.
Relationships: Emma Frost/Jean Grey, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 30
Kudos: 49
Collections: Banned Banned Together Bingo 2020, Banned Together Bingo 2020





	1. Jasmine Spells and Cypress Wells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is my fill for the BannedTogetherBingo2020 prompt "Witchcraft". 
> 
> Many thanks to the incredible [FlightInFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) for the beta 💖

_Thank you for agreeing to our terms. Meet me at the Cypress Well before dawn._

Such had read the message of the coal-black carrier pigeon to Emma Grace Frost, the White Queen Witch of the Hellfire Coven, and she had more or less reluctantly heeded it. And so it came that she now drew her petal-white stole tighter around her shoulders against the cool night’s breeze and leaned back to perch on the rim of the ancient brownstone well.

All around her, the cypresses whispered with glee. She watched as the purple candles on sticks – which marked a grave each on the Witch Cemetery – flickered in their Murano glass and ivory carving lanterns, and breathed in the delicately docile scent of night-flowering forb and shrubs growing rank between the grave markings.

A witch graveyard was never a trim and orderly affair. Ordinary women and men and everyone who there was in-between feared the overgrown squares of quiet, thriving nature in the middle of their bustling cities, but true witches, users of True Magic, found serenity in their presence. It gave them back a part of their savage, untamed nature which they had lost to human civilisation. And this graveyard was no different from the others.

Though Emma could have gladly done without all the nasty fire ants building their hills in the long grass like the place belonged to them.

The creaking of metal and rubber on the slate slab path tore her from her contemplations, and when she raised her head from where she had been studying her flawlessly manicured fingernails, he was already there.

Charles Xavier, High Priest of the Gifted Coven, smiled at her from his low-set wheelchair and said, _Emma. You came. I owe you my thanks._

His mind magic curled up against hers like a sweet lithe cat only waiting to bite the hand that fed it.

She didn’t smile back. _Don’t act as if I’m doing this for charity’s sake. You know we agreed on a mutual exchange._

His smile unwavering, Charles nodded amiably. The only sign betraying his inner turmoil was his knuckles, which she found fisted so tightly into the quilted blanket on his lap that she could see his bones shimmering through his Carrara marble skin.

_Of course not_ , he said in that velvet voice of his. _Be assured: You shall receive the price you named._

For that, she decided to grace him with one of her ice-and-sugar smiles. _Very well. Lead the way._

Only when they had left the stone paths, and gravel was grinding under the soles of Emma’s white designer stilettos, did she notice her fellow witch’s attire.

_You are still wearing the charcoal suit you wore to the Black King’s funeral this evening, sugar. Is your wardrobe really that limited?_

Charles did not react to the playful nature of her jest. Instead, his words sounded serious and weary as he sent them one after the other through the diamond gates guarding her mind.

_I had a long night and no time to change. There were many affairs to tend to after Shaw’s death, especially now that some old allies of his have found each other once more at his death salute._

Emma huffed daintily. Of course, the old bat would bring them trouble even from beyond the grave. She could well imagine that if they were to pass the witch master’s last resting place on their way back from whatever Charles had summoned her to do, they would find it ransacked by those keenest on taking revenge when they hadn’t had the chance to do so earlier.

Well, it wasn’t like she gave a cursed damn anyway.

_You request a clean-up, then? You are right. It has been far too long since I rooted out all the bad weed in my Coven_ , she finally decided to reply.

_If you think you can afford it_ , came Xavier’s lukewarm answer, and then, _We are here on much more private business, in fact. Which doesn’t mean Shaw’s death isn’t the cause._

Emma rolled her eyes inconspicuously while trying to look like she was spellbound by the beauty of the night-flowering coral-red roses sprawling along this particular part of the path. _Of course._

Then, they were silent again. Here and there came the homely flicker of a grave candle from the depths of the briars. Above them, the moon shone and coated every leaf, every petal and blade of grass in its glimmer so that it was as though they were walking through a sea of solid silver.

The cypresses were murmuring in the cool night air.

Emma was thinking back to the first time she had met Shaw. To the day she had become a witch.

“You’ve got magic in you,” he had told her and so confirmed the suspicions she had been harbouring ever since she had known her brother was a homosexual without him telling her. She had just known. From the way he moved, from the way he talked… from the way he thought.

And then, Shaw had proceeded to introduce her – the daughter of old money who had run away from home with her baby brother – to the world of the witches, of covens and their intrigues, of blood feuds and odd alliances. And he had taught her spells. Spells of blood; spells of diamond; spells of thoughts.

He had groomed her to sparkle as the crown jewel in his shimmering, shining collection of jewels, and she had soaked it all up like the young innocent woman she had been.

Now, she smiled. No more kneeling. No more blind obedience. No more biting down the words of resistance, no more biting her tongue until it bled.

The Black King was dead. Long live the White Queen.

Finally, she decided to venture into deeper waters with the man wheeling beside her.

_And you’re sure you don’t know one or two especially risqué details about the King’s death?_ she asked casually, plucking the golden petals from an evening star’s blossom.

Charles hummed. _Dear me, whatever are you talking about? I swear to you to know nothing. Not the least, in fact._

She smiled, looked up to study the voluptuous crescent of the moon in the greying night sky. Of course, the head witch of the Gifted Coven would _know the least_ about his rivalling witch king’s death. Such were the laws of the witches, after all.

_An eye for an eye leaves everyone blind._ Not in all cases, though.

As numerous as Shaw’s admirers, followers and emulators had been, many had also hated and feared him. His death, premature for a witch’s average lifespan and suspiciously accidental, had whipped up quite the feeling in the environs’ covens. New allies had to be found, knots of friendship un– and retied. There was to be a mighty uproar amongst the witches of Northern America.

Knowingly, Emma eyed the clear starry night with not a wisp of clouds or fog in sight. The weather witches at least didn’t seem distressed at all, least of all their Queen of Storms, Ororo Munroe. In fact, Emma thought she remembered the woman clothed in gold and black smiling a little too widely at the Black King’s farewell ceremony this afternoon.

Oh well. Let the youth have their fun.

_Will you at least let me in on what we are to do here_ , she bored on, _or will I have to wait in dreadful anticipation until we have finally arrived wherever we are going?_

_We are almost there_ , Charles told her patiently. _Just a few more turns._

She shrugged her indifference at him. _Well then. Let’s talk about other things to pass the time._

The strands of his lush auburn hair coated with quicksilver moonlight, he glanced up at her. There were clouds of suspicion roiling just beneath his seaside eyes.

_Other things?_

_Does she know?_ Emma flicked away the miserably mutilated remains of the evening star. _Have you told her?_

Reluctance twisted his lips, and he was almost glaring when he answered, _Yes, I have. She took it in stride._

_Good. She will have to learn to live with me, after all._ Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, _Did she let hear anything about a preferred date for the ceremony?_

But Charles Xavier was listening to her no more. And as the heady scent of jasmine invaded her senses, she understood why.

They had reached their destination. 

Solitary witches had their seven-on-seven-feet square beneath the ground, the flame of a single crimson candle burning like a lighthouse in their lantern and the brambles whispering in the wind above their decaying bodies. Covens had their distinct graveyard districts, where only members of theirs would be buried.

And witch families of great power had their very own mausoleums and crypts.

Shaw had wanted a mausoleum, too, Emma remembered. One for himself and the progeny he planned on siring, one built of solid marble and plated with sheer gold and the blood of his enemies. One like the Eisenhardt bloodline had erected: an ancient family, revered and whispered about in the most intimate circles– but sadly wiped out when the last of their heirs, the head witch of the Coven of Sisters and Brothers, had disappeared and been declared dead.

Then again, the Black King had never expected to bite the dust so early, either. So all he had received was the customary lantern blackening with soot above his grave and the spit of all those he had wronged in his lifetime.

Eternity was something only the discreet earned, and Emma found satisfaction in this.

Now, however, her heart was far from content, she found as she stared at the construction in front of which Charles had come to a very final halt.

_You can’t be serious_ , she pushed vehemently into his direction. _Why, out of all places, are we at the Iron Crypt?_

And of iron it was. Pure, solid iron, curling, twirling into pillars and window openings and a giant doorway gaping in the middle of its front wall, spouting darkness like the mouth of a dreaming beast. The source of the heavy jasmine aroma, Emma discovered, was a thicket of said plants cradling the monumental building in its branches which were hung with emerald leaves and ivory-white blossoms, saturating the night air with the taste of sweet, beguiling innocence. And though the Iron Crypt had been misnamed – it was more of a mausoleum than a crypt, being far from a church and the sickly-sweet dampness of the underground –, the last resting place of the Eisenhardts would never cease to inspire both awe and fear in whoever dared lay eyes on it. No matter their status, no matter their deeds, all witches knew to respect the power of the only bloodline which had ever mastered the art of moulding the magnetism of Earth with their very hands.

When he didn’t answer, Emma strode over to Charles and poked his shoulder. _So this is what it’s all about? Have you really yet to reconcile yourself with his fate?_

And out loud she said, for the first time this evening, “Charles, it’s been over a decade. You ought to get over it someday, and soon.”

Charles, though, only chuckled and manoeuvred closer to the doorsill, breaking off twigs of the night-flowering jasmine as he went. “There is no need to.” _Now please, follow me._

She complied with a heavy heart, and in they went through the open iron gates to be swallowed by the pitch-black shroud of darkness and death.

A splutter, and then the oil in the brazen lamps on the walls sizzled to flaming life, sending shadows slanting over rows upon rows of coffin tops. Their entrance must have triggered a centuries-old kindling spell, and Emma welcomed the illumination with open arms.

Still, the interior of the Crypt she found rather tasteless. What were all those eerily life-like effigies of the Eisenhardt ancestors supposed to do? Scare the living daylights out of each and every visitor so they would hightail it right out of there?

Because if that was the intended effect, it did work damn well.

However, Charles in front of her was wheeling ahead already, utterly unfazed. _Are you coming_ , he asked, _or am I supposed to do all the witching myself?_

Picking up her pace, she hurried after him while trying – successfully – not to make it look like hurrying. Emma Frost never hurried, after all.

The Crypt was enormous. Passing sarcophagus after sarcophagus, Emma quickly lost track of its dimensions, blinded by the oily light glinting off all kinds of various metals. There was copper covered with verdigris; silver polished to the nines; sheer steel, darkened with age, but holding not a trace of rust on its surface. And above it all, there arched the staggering expanse of the ceiling, its highest points eluding the light to veil themselves in flickering shadows.

Then, Charles’ wheelchair ground to a halt in front of one very specific coffin – one of the newest additions, sleek and neat and swirling with the colours of an alloy unknown to Emma, but a face and body cast on top which she very much recognised –, and only as she approached it warily, the truth of what complex magic they were about to attempt really sank in.

There he was buried: Erik Lehnsherr, last offspring and heir of Lorna Eisenhardt, the witch who had first tamed all forces of magnetism with her bare hands, with her unfiltered Magic, eons ago; proud and beloved leader of the Iron coven, doted on by his husband Charles Xavier since the very first time they had laid eyes upon each other.

And last but not least, the one thorn in Shaw’s eye, until he had released his dying breath and unburdened the high priest from all his worries.

Emma could not help but think back to those days. Stormy nights, the darkest hour. The Gifted Coven had been mourning for months, the fiery sashes and embroideries they usually wore on their coal-black tunics and suits stuffed away into the darkness of their drawers; their leader small and sunken in his wheelchair as though all he wanted was to disappear from the face of the earth like his husband had done all too soon. Meanwhile, Shaw had held feast after feast in the Hellfire headquarters, laughing, jesting, dancing with every young woman who was unfortunate enough to drift into the reach of his arms.

With Erik Lehnsherr dead, there had been no more need to fear for his life and fortune amongst the witches of Northern America. No more vengeance for the death of a young, innocent boy’s mortal parents could be enacted, now that said boy had joined them six feet beneath the ground.

And Emma, together with Charles Xavier, with Ororo Munroe, with Raven Darkhölme – who had moved up in the rank of the witches, since she was the most promising candidate for taking on leadership of Erik’s Coven of Sisters and Brothers –, had gritted her teeth, balled her fists, glared in bloodlust – and said nothing.

Now, a similar fate was befalling the dubious circumstances of Shaw’s death, and Emma couldn’t say that she minded very much.

What she did mind, though, was the toll the spell they were about to perform would take on her powers.

“You still aren’t over his death, are you now?” she asked and sneered, even as Charles turned his head to stare at Erik’s eerily life-like effigy on the coffin top. “Really, you ought to accept it one day. It’s going to be a hell of a night, for _both of us_ , if you don’t.”

“Do not worry, Emma,” murmured Charles as he manoeuvred so that he was right side by side with Erik’s sarcophagus, then placed the twigs of jasmine he had collected on his blanketed lap and laid his hands on the effigy’s instead. “You will see that this will cost us both much less magic than you might expect.”

“Well then.” Resigned, she took three fingers to brush over the sigil carved into the skin of her breastbone and delighted in the cool flooding her senses, washing out her mind magic and letting in her other discipline, yielding as it took over her thoughts, her body, her very being.

When she lifted her hand away from her décolleté, it shimmered and shone in the light of the oil lamps like freshly fallen snow. She smiled.

Charles watched with distance in his gaze as she stepped around him, placed a hand on the shoulder of Erik’s effigy, tugged to test its weight. Then, just as she hooked her diamond fingers under the rim of the strangely metallic coffin top and braced herself to lift it effortlessly, his hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, “there is no need to.”

She turned to stare at him in disbelief, well knowing that her eyes must glint like those of an otherworldly beast. _What are you on about? To perform a resurrection spell on Erik, we must be in direct contact with his mortal remains. Or can you not stand the sight?_

For a heartbeat, all the answer she got was a stony glare.

“For Erik, I would endure anything,” Charles finally ground out, his hands going white-knuckled against the sarcophagus’ brazen brilliance. “But I am lucky enough that I don’t have to. There are no mortal remains,” he added.

“You are saying we don’t have whatever is left of your husband after all these years. Well, then we might as well have made this whole trip for nothing.”

“Not for nothing.” A strange smile was tugging at Charles’ lips. _Because what if there had never been any mortal remains to search for and bury here in the first place? What if Shaw had never really met his goal, which was to run down my darling and tear him to shreds? What if all these years, Erik had just been–_ Gingerly, he took a stalk of jasmine from his lap and tucked it into the hollow between the effigy’s palms and breast– _hiding in plain sight?_

It took Emma a minute before she exploded.

“You can’t be serious,” she hissed, poking her index at Charles’ magenta tie. “How did you get him to do this?” _How many spells took it to twist his mind into this direction?_ A cold glare shot at Erik’s effigy – Erik himself, frozen in time, paralysed by whatever Charles, his _own husband_ , had turned him into– sealed oh-so inconspicuously to the coffin top, clothed with nothing but a sheer silken tunic. “The Erik I knew would have never chosen to run, to hide here among the dead like he was already one of them.”

“The Erik you knew,” Charles replied, that stubborn shimmer he always got in his eyes when he was challenged resurfacing, “the Erik you _all_ knew, he was not the man who let himself be known by me. He was kind, and he was afraid, and he loved me so that he never wanted me to feel the pain he felt. _My_ Erik did not argue for long when I presented him with this solution.”

She was close to calling him on his bullshit. _So close._ And yet she knew that if she did, if she spat into his face now, if she turned her back and walked away and left this dwelling of the dead for good, she would never get the price she desired. The pact they had made would be broken, and there would be no hand in marriage. No alliance. No…

_Very well._ Her diamond hands crushed a few of the jasmine petals as she grabbed them, but the spell she supposed Charles had chosen for this occasion did not necessitate their integrity. _Where do you want those? And me?_

“Just...” He gestured distractedly as he twisted around and unclasped a well-worn leather satchel from his back rest. The scent of vanilla oil rose like a cloud towards Emma. White candles, then.

_Classy._

Charles smiled mildly.

Then, he asked, _Could I borrow your shawl?_

Emma was sure it was well past midnight already when they had at last achieved their final preparations.

_So much white_ , she whispered into the ordered chaos of Charles’ mind – the man was obviously anxious to revive his husband’s inanimate form. _Moonstones. Jasmine petals. Ivory candles, and a silvern knife._ “Do you want him to wake up as a blank slate, so he will not murder you for how you have kept him from living for all these years?”

Charles shot her an absent-minded glance and continued wrapping Erik’s folded hands in the silk of Emma’s stole. “Of course not. I know he will do no such thing. I’m just seeking to cleanse his body of the iron and the stiffness of the years.” He finished, then took the crimson rose he had worn to Shaw’s funeral from his breast pocket and plucked petal after petal from its poor head. “This will suffice to keep his spirit from being drawn out in the process.”

Emma watched in silence as he took the petals and laid them over Erik’s closed eyelids, his lips and ears and nose.

_Have you noted the state of the moon tonight, Emma?_ he asked when he had finished.

Emma sighed. _Waxing. Almost full, which bodes well for psychic energy and growth. You planned this meticulously, haven’t you?_

_Of course, I did. Now, if you could please take the other end of your shawl?_

Emma obliged. Her flawlessly manicured fingernails caught on the fabric, but she found her grip was firm and dry. They would do this.

“I have asked you to aid me in this because of the disciplines you specialised in,” Charles’ voice broke her out of her internal prep-talk. She looked up and saw him look at her openly for the first time this evening. “Not only have you learned to shift the nature your body’s flesh, but you do also possess vast quantities of mind-melding Magic which almost equal my own. I could have turned to Raven for help, or to Piotr Rasputin from my own Coven, but they would have lacked that special component.”

She nodded, a curt sign for him to continue. What was he on about now?

“I’m glad – very glad – that our Covens are so intensely devoted to each others’ well-being, not only thanks to Bobby Drake’s and your brother Christian’s marriage, which has forged an important bond between your and my witches. However, your payment… the alliance you suggested… Do you not think it a little much for–”

Emma’s skin crackled when she reverted to her diamond form. “Don’t, Charles. Just don’t. You made a pact – now own it.”

She could see him blanch under all his calm, calculated demeanour. “Is there really no other price I could pay in exchange for my daughter’s freedom of choice?” he whispered, turquoise eyes wide and beseeching.

“No.” Time to put her foot down. There was no way she would that opportunity slip from her grasp – after all, they didn’t call her the Diamond-Hearted Witch for nothing. “If you want to bring your husband back to life, you will have to bear with what my heart desires from you. And be reassured: If you even so much as think about cutting me, I will crack your ribcage open and wrench your Magic right out of your heart.”

Charles’ Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Then, he nodded.

_Fine. In that case, it’s time we wove the spell._

Emma sneered. _Don’t act so pathetic, Charles. We both know that deep, deep down in a murky corner of your conscience, you are just as ruthless and greedy as I am._

She ignored his spluttering for words in favour of wrapping the middle of her stole around his hands. It would serve as a conduit for their Magic, channelling their intentions, connecting them even when they would be out of it.

“Ready?” she asked.

He answered, dazed, “Ready. Just repeat what I say – the words are but a mere anchor for our powers.”

She nodded one last time.

And Charles began.

  
  


_This as his remedy for the prison of the mind_

_This as his remedy for the shackles of the flesh_

_This as his remedy for the bars of the soul_

  
  


Emma listened, let Charles’ velvet intonation wash over her – and when she spoke to repeat them, the words flew from her tongue like birds, fluttered over to settle on Erik’s chest and vanish into the folds of his tunic. Sparks of her Magic followed them, cool, soothing motes of birdsong.

  
  


_For the storms within and without to cease_

_For him to return to those who breathe_

_For him to gaze with living eyes_

_For him to leave this desert of iron and ice_

  
  


She had to stifle a sudden gasp when her fingers began to cramp around the silk of her stole and her wrists locked painfully. However, a glance over at Charles confirmed that it was not, in fact, an attempt on her life: Her fellow witch’s eyes were screwed shut, his brows and nose scrunched up as he held on to the shawl for dear life.

He was hurting just as much.

Then, Magic’s melody smoothed out once more, clear as crystal and ice, and the air began to shimmer.

Charles pawed for the silver blade and put it to Erik’s lips.

  
  


_Break the spell that binds you_

_Speak in freedom your mind_

_Think of what defines you_

_Return to me and our kind_

_No more hiding in iron and gold_

_Your story untold shall unfold_

  
  


Emma gasped, ground her teeth. A chasm. A chasm was opening as she spoke those words, deep and bottomless and full of hunger, drawing Magic from Charles’ fingertips as much as it took from hers.

Even in her body of diamond, her knees began to shake. She groaned.

There was whispering in the air; the beating of a thousand silvern wings. Suddenly, the light of the oil lamps in their brazen mountings paled against a shine so intense she had to close her eyes or be blinded for life, and the last thing she saw was Charles, eyes wide open, his hands flying to cover Erik’s iron ones as a cocoon of silver and steel grey came to envelop them both–

Sheer whiteness closed in, and her knees hit the ground.

Her body was soft and pliable when she came to – and to her shame, gasping loudly. Though she doubted it had been more than a minute, she rolled out of Charles’ reach before lifting her eyes and assessing the situation.

At first, she thought they had failed. Wisps of Magic were coming down all around and burned up in brilliant sparks of silver-blue when they hit the cool stone floor. Charles’ shoulders were shaking where he was bent over Erik’s form, still and dark after the brightness which had cradled him only minutes ago.

Then, she noticed that she was not, in fact, emitting the gasps filling the Crypt’s sullen air. And the flames of the oil lamps were flickering, shaking in their delicate metal holders. What had been dead, unyielding steel had turned into flesh – warm, supple, alive.

Erik Lehnsherr, last heir of the Eisenhardt bloodline, was breathing once more, cradled in Charles Xavier’s arms.

“The danger has passed at last, my love,” Charles was whispering between stifled sobs, his nevertheless intent eyes betraying the thirst with which he drank in the sounds heralding his lover’s awakening. “We shall be reunited now, until the end of times, and I swear to you that nothing will ever tear us apart again.”

Beneath his fingers, Erik was heaving for breath, gasping, keening, grappling for Charles’ hand like a drowning man would grasp a lifeline. His ribcage expanded, contracted. There were words clinging to his lips, an endless river of them, and though his tongue was too dry to articulate them, his mind was chanting, _Charles, Charles, Charles. You came. You came for me, you took me from the dark and the cold._

Emma knew she was staring. She turned away when Charles began to coo endearments - “My love, my darling, my dearest, I would never leave you to that horror.” – and rub his hands rhythmically up and down over Erik’s arms.

There were flakes of white wax all over the floor – the white candles, shattered under the current of Magic – and when she got up, a moonstone cracked and crumbled into dust under her heels, depleted of all its energy. Ash coated her airways, the atomised remains of the jasmine and rose petals. Her stole, unravelled by the spell, had been discarded carelessly by Charles’ feet.

She was needed no more here.

The Witch Cemetery lay still and serene before her when she stepped outside.

The cypresses had ceased their whispering, unmoved by the faint breeze. However, the jasmine growing rank all over the Crypt was still diffusing its heavy, hearty scent. A blush had come to replace the starry dark of the night.

The moon had set, and as Emma started forward, taking deep, cleansing breaths of morning air, the first sun rays sneaked over the horizon and set the upmost tips of the cypress trees aflame.

She had done it. She had aided Charles Xavier in resurrecting his lover, and she had earned her price more honourably than she could have ever hoped.

Jean Grey’s hand in traditional witch marriage was well and truly hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate, just a "+kudos" or a "loved it!" would make my day!!! It means so much to an author to see people take the time to actually type out words instead of simply hitting one (1) button, and it's a very easy way to make us writers - who dedicate so much of our free time to create content for you - happy!


	2. The Phoenix and the Diamond-Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Jean's history is one of power and emancipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all my thanks to the amazing [FlightInFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) for the beta 💙 
> 
> Sooraya Qadir is a (honestly underappreciated) mutant with the ability to turn herself into a literal sandstorm.

To Emma, Jean Grey had always been special.

The day they had first met would forever be ingrained in her memory.

She herself had been young still, barely a woman – and Jean no more than an adolescent, a carefree child slowly blooming into adulthood. It had been at one of Sebastian’s countless parties, his spoiled attempts at currying favour with his fellow witches while he stabbed their Covens in the back the minute they looked away. Opulent music, glittering ballrooms and dames, lavish buffets which could have supplied a small country with food for days.

And Emma Grace Frost had been Sebastian Shaw’s most luxurious arm candy.

All eyes on her, she took smiling sip after sip of champagne, laughed when the Black King of the Hellfire Coven addressed the occasional word to her, and danced with strange witches she had never seen before and would never see again – except maybe if Shaw offered her to them for a night in exchange for whatever he was after this time. She couldn’t say she enjoyed it, but then again, it had been Sebastian who had taken her in and given her and her baby brother a home when no one else would.

At that time, she just hadn’t known any better.

The moon had already long crested its zenith when the first guests started to file out. Emma, for once free of Sebastian’s too-tight hold on her hip, had been sitting on a divan by the window, pecking at a strawberry tartlet without really tasting it. The darkness of night reflected her face back to her – beautiful and shining in its silver-and-cerulean make-up, ethereal in the way her lush platinum locks framed her cheeks, her forehead.

And yet, she felt tired. A tiredness more consuming than any one-nighter, than each and every physical and spiritual exertion. She was stuck; a piece of jewellery, shimmering and shining, but sullied all-too easily by Sebastian’s careless touch.

And at that time, she hadn’t even known it.

A reflection beyond her own tore her from her half-conscious state. A man in a wheelchair, his charcoal suit embellished by one single flaming rose in his breast pocket, had appeared in her range of vision. But he was in no way what had caught her attention. No – There was something else to it. A presence, a force like a magnetic draw was urging Emma to turn around and gaze out across the emptying room.

So, she did. And the first thing she saw was green.

Emerald green. Moss green. The green of the sea at dawn, the green of the aurora borealis over a lonely plain of ice, the green of a thousand years of life.

The green disappeared behind a blink, and she looked away and willed herself not to blush. It was a girl, a teenage girl, but a few little years younger than her – the companion of the man in the jet-black suit.

She was gorgeous.

Obviously, Sebastian was thinking the same, because no sooner had she entertained the thought than she saw him make his way over towards the witches in black, one hand out for the man to shake.

“Charles Xavier,” Emma heard him purr, “what an honour.” Then, his eyes slid over to the young redhead, dead and cold like pebbles. “And who might you be, pretty little lady?”

Something in her gut started writhing at that. _Pretty little lady_. Who was Sebastian to think he had the _right_ to talk to this ethereal appearance in such a crude manner?

She was not alone in her thinking. Disgust flitted openly over the girl’s face, and she did not take Sebastian’s offered hand when she said, “I’m Jean Grey, ward of Charles Xavier.”

“She has been in my care since she was a little girl,” Charles Xavier – the name rang a bell and Emma remembered that he was the one who had founded the Coven of the Gifted and married the head witch of the Coven of Sisters and Brothers – added, no less cautious. “In fact, she shouldn’t even be here this evening, since this event could be considered… _inappropriate_ for such a young person. However, she has already been sought out by a Familiar – a powerful one. There is no reason not to let her attend a traditional witch banquet.”

Emma felt her eyes widen involuntarily. Sebastian across the room was suffering the same fate.

“A Familiar?” he spluttered. “But they are rare and far in-between nowadays...” He left the “And why would they chose a mere _child_ from such a weak coven?” unspoken.

Nevertheless, Xavier’s expression hardened. “Indeed. It seems Murphy’s law has deemed us worthy of change.”

The cogs were turning in Sebastian’s brain. Emma could see it behind his eyes in diamond-bright clarity.

“I trust you won’t hesitate to share said _change_ ,” he finally said, licking his lips unconsciously. “It would be a shame to see such a young bright mind go to waste – I’m sorry Charles, please excuse my honest choice of words – in such a backwater Coven as yours. I’m sure we could come to an agreement–”

“Dad?”

Xavier took his blazing eyes from Shaw and smiled when he turned to the young woman by his side. “Yes, Jean?”

Jean glanced over at Emma, for a heartbeat only, and still it felt as though Emma’s insides began thawing like glacier ice under the warm gaze of the sun. Their eyes met. Emma let a small smile slide onto her lips.

Then, Jean looked away and spoke, “I wanna leave.”

Sebastian’s jaw hit the floor, and in her gut, Emma felt amusement mingle with just a tad of disappointment. Jean Grey intrigued her… but if the girl’s stubbornness meant that Shaw wouldn’t get his grubby fingers on her, she was more than willing to let her go. For now.

After all, Emma Grace Frost could bide her time.

Emma knew she had to _own_ Jean Grey when she caught sight of the young witch’s Familiar for the first time.

It was at the end of the world, and all the witches had united their forces and gathered in Cairo to defeat the Ultimate Evil which was to bring about said end of the world. The Ultimate Evil in question was blue, seven feet tall and also a very, _very_ old deity with questionable fashion sense – at least if you asked Emma.

But of course, no one was asking her. Instead she was standing in line with all the other witches, forming a loose circle of defense around where Charles Xavier, Ororo Munroe, Erik Lehnsherr and other Covens’ leaders were holding their war council, with Shaw brooding jealously some way off. To Emma’s mute amusement, he had not been invited to strategise.

They had taken a few serious hits. Several witches among their ranks had fallen under the thrall of En Sabah Nur, The First One as his disciples called him, or The Morning Light, or the First Mage to Ever Grace the Soil of Earth – destined to bring about humanity’s downfall and Magic’s uprising.

The uncompromised witches’ numbers were dwindling. They would have to employ their resources wisely. Tensions were high.

Something stirred in the dusty air in front of Emma, and she called out, “Halt! Who goes there?”

She hated to use such an old-fashioned formulation – it reeked of dust and centuries of patriarchy on her tongue – but bound to its intonation was a spell which would strike the intruder down in unimaginable pain if they harboured any ill intentions.

Which, apparently, was not the case, since from the shrouds of ochre billowing in front of her stepped a figure in a cloak, very much friendly and very much not in pain. A woman, judging from the fabric curving over her chest, with her hands rising to pull back her hood.

“I am Jean Grey from the Coven of the Gifted,” she said, and then hair bright as embers was spilling forward over her shoulders, and the emerald green of her eyes locked with the sapphire blue of Emma’s. “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I can help. I know it.”

Emma stared – or didn’t stare, because Emma Grace Frost never stared, but she was certainly looking respectfully.

Jean’s form had filled out, now more pleasing to the eye than ever. Of course, Emma had spotted her from afar at various witchery events over the years, had heard from her heroic deeds and read of her in the papers. But only now, amidst the shattered ruins of Cairo, with the world’s end a mere hand-breath away, did it strike her that the gangly teenage girl she had preserved in her fantasy had grown into a woman – petite, defiant, with the stance of someone who had had to learn to defend themselves.

“Well?” Jean pressed on when Emma wouldn’t speak, “Will you let me rot out here just because Charles said I was to stay away?”

Emma smiled. Insubordinate, troublesome, a piece of work – just like she preferred them.

“Of course not, sugar,” she purred. “Go ahead.”

And then she was stepping aside, letting Jean walk by her and catching just a whiff of the girl’s sweet, nervous scent.

Oh yeah, and she had to shut down a Magic probe to her mind. Distrustful was another one to add to the list, then.

Sooraya Qadir to her right turned to her when Jean had passed, nervously adjusting her niqab veil. “Do you think that was a good idea?” she whispered. “Xavier won’t be pleased.”

Emma snorted. “Xavier is never pleased.”

And as if on clue, commotion erupted behind their backs. Emma turned around to watch, well knowing that she must look like she was devouring mental popcorn at the drama unfurling before them all, but this was more than worth it.

All Coven leaders had refocused their attention on the newcomer in their midst, with Charles at the forefront.

“And what exactly do you _think_ you’re doing here?” he hissed, fingers digging into the quilted blanket on his lap. “Jean, if there is anything I want to see the least right now, it’s you coming out onto the battlefield, risking your life and exposing yourself to dangers you won’t be able to–”

“Are you calling me a weakling?” Jean growled back.

“No– I– Jean, look, it’s just that you lack the _control_ to–”

Hands balled into fists, the young witch was practically fuming. Emma could see it.

“And you always know what’s best for me? You always tell me I should set boundaries, call upon my Familiar as little as possible until you’ve figured out a cure, but when’s that ever gonna happen? Sometimes I feel like despite all your talk about keeping control and doing the better thing you don’t even know what you’re doing!”

Silence.

The wind was whistling through the ruins. Sand grains stirred and battered against shawls and hoods drawn over noses. All eyes on Xavier.

The Witch Leader swallowed. “Jean, I don’t know what you want me to tell you...”

Then, Emma was stepping out from between Sooraya Qadir and Alison Blaire, and all the attention swerved over to her like iron filings towards a magnet. Behind her, the gap she left was quickly filled.

Challenging the Head of a Coven was no sane thing to do. Not when you met them at a gala, not when you were to collaborate with them, and especially not during a breather in the midst of battle.

But when had Emma Grace Frost ever been considered sane?

“Charles,” she spoke, putting as much pathos into her voice as she could muster up without sounding ridiculous, “ _let her_. There is no point in wasting Jean’s potential now that she’s already here, at the end of the world, willing to give her life freely. And really, will it be worth sending her away to perish slowly, painfully with all the others for days and weeks after we’ve lost? Because lose we will, if we don’t take all the help we can get.”

Assenting murmurs came from the witches all around, and even Sebastian’s otherwise so impassive face showed signs of thought. Charles Xavier frowned, opened his mouth to articulate his discontent.

His husband’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

Erik Lehnsherr was a sight to behold: Sharp cheekbones mottled with blood from a minor head wound, eyes blazing with a mixture of desperation and morosity, he still stood as tall and proud as when they had marched into battle. He had been amidst the ones to fight the fiercest and to fall the quickest, only saved by luck and Ororo Munroe’s good aim.

“I am with Jean and Emma Frost,” he said, and the crowd’s rumbling got louder.

“Let her fight!” shouted Raven Darkhölme, her blank sulphur eyes blazing. “Let her fight for her people!”

“Let her fight for the world,” it came from another corner, and then all hell broke loose when suddenly, someone was crying for help, being devoured by the sand and soil of the ground come alive.

Emma brushed over her collarbone and set off her Diamond Spell. Ororo Munroe took to the air, Erik Lehnsherr raised his hands to command the steel and copper of Cairo’s remains, and Charles Xavier put his fingers to his temple to weave charm after charm, sending them to surge against the minds of En Sabah Nur’s forces.

It was a hopeless fight. One by one, Emma saw her fellow witches being picked off; maimed, trapped, beaten to a pulp by their own brothers and sisters which The First One had swayed to his side. She broke ribs and arms and legs where she could, snapped necks where she had to. Friend or fiend – those borders had long since lost their meaning.

Then, an explosion rocked the ground beneath her feet, and ere she knew it, she lay in the dust and grime along with all the other fighters, her own opponent – sweet little Scott Summers who had been among the first to turn – knocked out cold.

Only En Sabah Nur, at the epicentre of the eruption, had remained standing. His hand was closing in around Jean Grey’s throat.

Emma did not know who cried out first: she herself or Xavier, lying beside his toppled wheelchair.

“You monster!”

“Let her go, you bastard!”

And Jean… Jean was struggling for breath. Clawing at those blue wizened fingers. Eyes wide and afraid and _green_.

Until all movement stopped, and she went limp.

Emma picked herself up, stumbled, staggered. Charles Xavier was groaning like a wounded animal, everyone else slowly coming to and gasping when the full breadth of their awful situation jumped into their faces.

Weaving spells was impossible while her Diamond Magic interfered with that of her Mind, so Emma shifted back into her vulnerable flesh form. But there were other things to worry about now than her impeding death.

 _Jean!_ she called. _Jean Grey? Can you hear me, Jean Grey?_

A light. A fire, a beacon was burning still in the young woman’s mind. And as Emma drew closer, so did that flame.

_Jean? Jean!_

En Sabah Nur huffed and turned to her, an additional arm growing from his side to come and crush her where she stood.

Jean Grey stirred.

And then not one but two voices battered against Emma’s shielding spells, proclaiming _WE ARE HERE, WE ARE ALIVE, AND WE SHALL NOT BE DEFEATED._

Jean Grey had been holding back all that time.

Later, stories would be told of a fireball engulfing Cairo; fire that burned no one save the old deity trapped in its heart. Tales would be spun of blue flesh melting, of centuries-old blood vaporising, of the bones of a God scattering into dust. The curious event would be mystified, a happenstance shrouded in mystery.

After all, no one had been present enough to understand what had taken place. Yes, young Jean Grey had been at the centre of it all when it happened, but did that make her the catalyst? Never before or after had she displayed such raw power, such primordial force, and she was – as already mentioned – _young_. Too young to have defeated a god, too young to have saved the world.

In the end, it all got attributed to sheer luck and maybe the meddling of a celestial force which had just so happened to come along while also being in the mood for world-saving. No further explanation needed.

Only Emma Frost of the Hellfire Coven had been audacious enough not to squeeze her eyes shut when the flames which did not char had roared around her, and so she was the only living being to ever glimpse Jean Grey’s Familiar in all its crimson-golden glory.

It was a Phoenix. A being of pure energy, a cosmic force descended from the stars to make itself at home in the body of a young woman, barely an adult and destined to witchhood.

And in that moment, Emma Grace Frost knew she had fallen in love. Not with the omnipotent Magic entity which had to be the single most powerful Familiar ever known to witchkind.

No. Her heart – her diamond heart which she had thought nothing would ever touch – was falling for the vessel; for the witch; for the woman.

For the one and only Jean Grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate, just a "+kudos" or a "loved it!" would make my day!!! It means so much to an author to see people take the time to actually type out words instead of simply hitting one (1) button, and it's a very easy way to make us writers - who dedicate so much of our free time to create content for you - happy!


	3. A Marriage in White and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Emma's wedding night goes up in flames - in a rather positive sense, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter is my fill for the BannedTogetherBingo2020 prompt "Hot Sex" (I probably took it a bit literally and really it's more Lukewarm Sex but... here goes nothing). 
> 
> Once again betaed by the lovely [FlightInFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) 💙 And many thanks to [Librata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata), [Soph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/askmeaboutmyoctopustheory/pseuds/askmeaboutmyoctopustheory) and the peeps from the [X-Men X-Traordinaire discord server](https://discord.gg/wqkPMEr) for some helpful tips about writing cis lesbian smut (first time here 🤚)!

Jean married Emma in the most decadent wedding gown – black, form-fitting, with red accents like flames flitting over the fabric whenever she moved – and Emma would have gladly dismembered anyone who dared to claim that her wife wasn’t the most beautiful woman of the evening.

They exchanged their vows in front of the assembled Witch Community of Northern America – most Covens had taken the time to travel to Massachusetts simply because they didn’t want to miss what would go down in Magic history as the Witch Alliance of the century – under the canopies of the Silver Grove, where generations upon generations of spell-weavers’ weddings had been blessed. Ororo Munroe, acting as High Priestess, had them draw a drop of blood each from their finger so that they might drip it into a goblet of solid iron, brimming with limpid well-water, and take a sip each. Thus, their Magic would intertwine, binding them in a bond which a kiss of true love would seal until their hearts would cease their beating and their bones would fall to dust.

When Emma leaned in to kiss her bride – to finally make Jean hers, the moment for which she had waited decades, a whole century almost – she spotted Charles from the corner of her eye, and behind him Scott Summers, upright in a charcoal tuxedo with a crimson sash and an expression on his chiselled face as though someone had kicked his puppy.

She smiled against Jean’s lips. Someone was _jealous_ , damn.

Well, it wasn’t like they couldn’t invite him into their bed sometime. After all, they would need toys.

Jean had followed her train of thought and promptly poked her in the ribs after they drew apart – very inconspicuously, of course.

 _Don’t goad the poor boy_ , she said in the privacy of their minds. _He’ll have enough trouble with us yet, you’ll see._

 _Indeed, my lovely wife_ , Emma whispered back, and she enjoyed the airy texture of the word as she sent it – sweet and lilac and warm, rubbing up against her diamond thoughts in all the right places.

Jean took the hand she offered to her and let herself be led down the aisle, face up to bathe it in their guests’ Magic which rained like a fresh spring shower upon them. _I’ll really have to wipe that smug smile of your face. You know, it almost makes us look like we planned this. Which is of course very much_ not _the case._

 _Not at all, dearest._ Emma took in her wife marching beside her, so resplendent and stunning and _perfect_ – a striking contrast to Emma herself, in her simple petal-white slack suit, with her eyes on Jean and Jean only. _Not at all._

Then, they danced.

The soil of the clearing between the golden willows was summer-warm beneath Emma’s bare feet, and Jean’s hand pressed tenderly yet firmly against her hips as she led her through the steps with an ease learned over decades. Ever since En Sabah Nur’s defeat, they had danced a lot together – when no one was looking; when the Hellfire gala guests had all cleared out, or when Irene Adler, Raven Darkhölme’s lovely wife, had sent word that Charles Xavier would not be back from business for a few hours while Jean was staying home and Emma just so happened to be around to pay a little visit.

They had had their stolen moments, their whispered promises.

But no more. Now, they were free. Dawn was falling over Silver Grove, and as Magic sparked through the air and they moved between the bodies, Emma and Jean found they truly had wished for nothing more.

Raven Darkhölme winked at them from where she whirled by, Irene in her arms, and Emma smirked. The stars were coming out. It was time.

 _It’s time_ , she told Jean.

Their drifting towards Emma’s very own Massachusetts’ Witch Academy was slow and deliberate. In-between well-wishes from the diverse Covens, first Jean slipped away to go brush her teeth and take a quick shower, and when she returned, Emma left the congratulations for her wife to accept as she excused herself to do the same.

Finally, their guests took the clues for what they were and began to bid their goodbyes, filing out of the Grove in chattering groups or – when they were in the mood for short-cuts – weaving portals into the air. Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr were the last to leave, clearly intent on hoping until the bitter end for either Jean or Emma to change her mind last minute – though of course, it was already far too late for that, and in fact, Charles seemed to do the greater part of hoping while Erik seemed much more interested in his husband than his daughter-at-heart.

Then, they were alone. And Jean took Emma’s hand and pulled her towards their new home.

Emma already had her wife moaning and writhing up against the doorframe when suddenly, Jean drew in a breath and hissed, “Emma. Do you have a hair tie?”

Mystified, Emma leaned back from where her lips had been peppering kisses along the perfect bow of Jean’s gorgeous jaw. Her hand was searing where she had it splayed between her wife’s legs.

Then, she understood. They had both meticulously filed down their fingernails the day before, and of course, Emma had thought of filling the lowest drawer beside their bed with (more or less) small surprises they would surely be able to make use of later in the night. And yes, she had gone shopping.

One hand still firmly pinning Jean in place, she reached into her suit trousers’ back pocket and drew out a whole pack of hair ties. “I have… half a dozen, sweetheart.”

Jean laughed, full of joy and delight, and then she was walking Emma backwards until the back of her knees hit the edge of the mattress and they were both toppling over, landing amidst the cool silk and linen sheets.

“The best wife I could have ever wished for,” Jean told her and surged forward into a kiss, deep, sweet, tasting of sunset-red and winter-white.

Emma kissed back, slid her hands where she could reach – Jean’s perfectly round ass, firm under her fingers, Jean’s breasts beneath that charcoal gown and that crimson bra she longed to peel away – and shuffled upwards on the bed.

Jean followed, panting, hair wildly askew, and then Emma gripped her shoulders and flipped her over and offered her a hair tie.

Straddling her wife’s waist, her pant suit’s topmost buttons already undone to flash the white lace beneath, she grinned. “Forgot something, sugar?”

“Oh, screw you,” Jean breathed and grabbed the elastic band with greedy fingers to pull her ember hair back into a ponytail.

“Ah, no.” Tantalisingly slow, just as she knew Jean would like it, Emma slid a finger over the witch’s throat, her collarbones, the dip between her breasts, before her hands snaked to Jean’s side and unzipped the wedding gown. “In fact, I’ll go first. Let me take care of you, darling.” Quickly, she bound her own hair back.

Jean blushed, moaned softly. Her mind was chanting _yesyesyes_.

Emma felt her grin widen. Coaxing Jean to lift her hip off the mattress, she skittered off her wife’s legs and then, in one swift movement, drew the gown all the way down and discarded it on the floor.

“Gorgeous, sugar, simply _gorgeous_ ,” she breathed at the sight of Jean splayed out so openly before her, so invitingly, so comfortably. Hips propped up with a pillow, her ivory skin, fairer even than Emma’s, was as freshly fallen snow against the fire of her hair and all that crimson lace hugging her chest and hips tightly, and her eyes – green, spring-green, well-green – shimmered wantonly in the dim honeyed light of the bedside lamp.

However, before she could dive in and _show_ her wife just how much she appreciated the gift of her, Jean was sitting up and unbuttoning the last stretches of Emma’s own wedding suit. “Too many layers”, she declared, and, “I want to see you while you please me.”

White-hot pleasure unfurled in the pit of Emma’s stomach at that, and she obligingly shucked the trousers off. “As you command, my queen.”

Jean giggled, and then she moaned as Emma, without much ceremony, pulled her legs apart and gently began nibbling up her thigh.

A few minutes later, and Jean’s lace-and-satin lingerie had sadly forfeited its earthly existence when the Phoenix’s flames had burst forth and burned it straight off Jean’s skin to allow Emma easier access.

Emma had just chuckled and made an eloquent quip about the rising temperature in the room. Sadly – or not so sadly, considering the overall circumstances – she had now forgotten all about it because all she could focus on was _JeanJeanJean_.

Jean’s thrumming heartbeat beneath her lips as she sucked at one of her nipples. Jean’s breathy, desperate moan as Emma gently blew on her clit. Jean’s taste on her tongue when she finally gave in, lowered her head between her legs and licked her in the most intimate places, enjoying the whimpers and pleas she drew from her wife’s mouth by adding a finger and then another one.

And Jean’s searing, grounding hands tangling in her hair, pulling her ponytail, with flames that did not burn flickering idly over their two forms.

Still, as the heat in the room became almost unbearable, Emma found she had to turn to diamond or be stewed alive. Around her fingers, Jean clamped, and as she whispered sweet little nothings into the juncture of her wife’s positively glowing thigh and body – _So good for me, darling, taking my tongue so nicely_ – _You’re beautiful, stunning, a jewel which could buy the universe and more – So hot and wet and all for me, sweetheart_ – she felt them drag against Jean’s insides in all the right places, tasted her on her tongue, licked her lips to chase the heady–

Jean growled, grabbed Emma by the hips and shoulders and manhandled her on her back.

“Keep your fingers inside me,” she commanded, “and don’t stop!”

With flames roaring around them, cocooning them in brilliant crimson and gold, Emma found she did not have the willpower to deny her precious wife anything.

Above her, Jean swore, moaned, keened as she rode Emma’s fingers and grabbed the mahogany headboard so tightly it splintered. And Emma watched, transfixed by such beauty, such power, such a raw force of nature.

The Phoenix’s wings sprouted from Jean’s back, spread widely, every feather a masterpiece painted in the most luminous colours, by the finest brushes held by the most skilled fingers. Jean quivered, spasmed. Emma kept rubbing her clit and purring encouragements, sweetly, softly, delighting in the rush of the Phoenix’s – _Jean’s_ – sheer power against her skin, reflecting off her diamond flesh like liquid gold.

After what felt like one sweet, all-too-short eternity, Jean came with a cry that shattered the windows’ bull-glass panes.

The next morning saw them lying wrung-out in bed, legs and hands entangled, ordering breakfast as well as a handyman for the windows from one of Emma’s subordinates.

“Christian sends his greetings,” Emma read from a postcard, “and he says his holidays with Bobby are going extraordinarily well.”

“Oh?” Jean rubbed her eyes and pressed a kiss to Emma’s bared collarbone.

“Yes. Don’t ask for details, it’s already enough that _I_ might have to gouge my eyes out.”

Jean grinned. “You’re one to talk. This night…”

Emma grinned right back. “Oh, what a night.”

The sunrise sent its first rosy rays through the broken windows, and Jean chuckled when one slanted over Emma’s caramel breasts. She reached out, gently laid a hand over Emma’s heart.

“Another round?”

Emma smiled at her wife – the wonderful witch she could finally call _hers –_ and nodded.

“Another round.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate, just a "+kudos" or a "loved it!" would make my day!!! It means so much to an author to see people take the time to actually type out words instead of simply hitting one (1) button, and it's a very easy way to make us writers - who dedicate so much of our free time to create content for you - happy!


End file.
